


Recycled

by barcelona (orphan_account)



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Angst, Friendship, Gen, Groundhog Day, Prompt Fic, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-10
Updated: 2012-03-10
Packaged: 2017-11-05 00:49:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 7,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/400067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/barcelona
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Martin dies, Douglas is devastated and goes to bed that night wishing there was something he could have done. Little does he know his wish will be granted, again and again... and again. </p><p>Originally written for <a href="http://cabinpres-fic.dreamwidth.org/3282.html?thread=3457746#cmt3457746">Meme Prompt</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

...

“Martin, _breathe_ , you need to breathe.”

“I don’t think he can, Douglas – he’s going all blue and funny in the face,” Arthur whimpered, his breathing quick and shallow, but far better than the painful wheezes of his captain, “I’m so sorry Skip, I’m so sorry.”

“This isn’t your fault. Martin, just hold on– where’s that bloody ambulance?”

“Carl said they’re coming! They’re almost here, I know they are, don’t worry Skip, It’ll be okay, you’ll be okay, we’ll all be okay.”

“Martin?”

“He has to be, he just – he’s Skipper, he’ll pull through-“

“Martin!”

“Just as soon as the ambulance gets here-“

“C’mon-“

“And makes him better and… Douglas?”

“ _Please_.”

The wheezing had stopped.

“Douglas what’s wrong? Skip, why isn’t he…”

“No.”

“Douglas? Douglas!”

“He’s gone, Arthur.”

“Gone? What do you mean- he’s not gone, he’s right – Skip? Skip! SKIP!”

“Arthur-“

“Do something!”

“I can’t-“

“No, you can! You have to-“

“Arthur.”

“No, no, he can’t be-”

“Arthur, come here. It’s alright…”

“But Skip’s, no, no, he just can’t. Not Skip, not the captain.”

Sirens.

... 

Martin is dead.

Oh god, what have I done.

Those two thoughts seemed to be all Douglas’ mind was capable of producing for the past fourteen hours, ever since they had zipped the bag close over that impossibly childish face. They served to numb him and had worked, Douglas had yet to cry. He just sat there on his bed, in the dark, still in his uniform, rubbing the spot on his thigh where he could feel Martin’s desperate fingers digging into him.

Douglas didn’t think they’d ever go away.

Arthur had shut down when he saw them take Martin, picking up the captain’s discarded cap and holding it tightly to his chest. The man had said little more than a pleading, “I’m sorry,” since.

When Carolyn heard, she had thought it was some cruel joke the boys were trying to play, but then she had seen her son and a wall went up. She chose to comfort Arthur rather than recognize her grief and Douglas had no doubt the woman would break when she was alone, much like Douglas knew he’d break - eventually.

Everything was mostly mechanical after that. Carolyn had taken Arthur home, canceled their job, and told Douglas she’d call the family. Douglas had agreed silently, got in his Lexus, drove to a liquor store, fought nearly a decade of sobriety, and ended up sitting on his bed sober, in the dark, alone with his thoughts.

Martin is gone.

It’s entirely my fault.

No, Douglas knew better. Everything had been a complete accident and although that absolved him and Arthur of guilt, it didn’t make anything better. If anything it made things worse, made Martin’s death pointless, stupidly pointless.

Douglas had picked Martin up that morning, the younger man having made a desperate phone call after his van wouldn’t start. As a result the two were both early and arriving together. While they crossed the airfield they had come across Carl impressing Arthur with his bench-pressing skills. The idea had sprung to the both of them simultaneously, and Douglas placed the bet that he could lift his own weight.

Martin did him better, saying he could probably lift Douglas' as well.

All the good cheeses and twenty quid later, and Martin lay down on the bench, his sleeves rolled up and jacket and cap given to Carl. Arthur was serving spotter and picked up the bar. It was then that a fuel truck back-fired and the bar slipped from Arthur’s grip.

Martin wasn’t ready.

The bar came down on his neck.

They got it off quick and Carl ran for help, but the damage was done and the paramedics were two minutes too late.

Douglas shouldn’t have made the bet, Martin shouldn’t have agreed, Arthur shouldn’t have been spotter, if the van had just started, if Douglas had slept in that morning…

Douglas knew grief, and he knew that no amount of what-ifs and could-haves would change anything.

Martin was gone, and when Douglas went to bed that night, when he woke up Martin would still be gone.

And anything and everything Douglas regretted about his friendship with the man would be left unresolved.

Taking a deep breath, Douglas finally set his hat on the nightstand and slowly removed his shoes. His jacket was already in the other room, and he didn’t think he had the energy to strip down.

Rolling onto his side, Douglas looked at the alarm clock: 21:19

Fourteen hours and sixteen minutes since Martin Crieff stopped existing.

Douglas wished for a drink.

He wished for the tears that would allow him to move on.

He wished he wasn’t getting a new hat at the end of the week.

More than anything he wished he could have done something so that come morning Martin wouldn’t be dead.

Douglas let himself fall into a dreamless sleep, and when the clock switched to 21:20, his wish was granted. 

...


	2. Chapter 2

...

“Douglas?”

“Hmm?”

“Are you alright?”

Douglas looked over to the passenger seat of the Lexus where Martin sat with his cap on his lap. The younger man was studying him curiously, brow furrowed slightly and a small expectant smile on his face. Honestly, Douglas had never been so relieved to see such an infuriating expression.

“Yes, why do you ask?”

“Well, you’ve been very quiet, and while – believe me – I am enjoying it, I’m just not use to such a Douglas Richardson.”

“If it pleases Sir-“

“ _No_ , no that’s fine, I like the new you. Good to change things up a bit.”

“Indeed.”

Silence, Douglas counted.

“Are you sure you’re alright?”

“Yes, Martin, I’m fine.”

“It’s just-“

“I didn’t get much sleep last night,” if any, “I’ll be back to my belittling self as soon as I get some of Arthur’s gut-grinding coffee. Of course being awoken two hours ahead of my alarm clock doesn’t help.”

“Sorry, I-I do appreciate this.”

“G-erti can’t fly without her captain.”

“Now you know that’s not true,” Martin muttered, fiddling with the rim of his hat.

Douglas bit back a quip, glancing at Martin from the corner of his eye. For a moment he wasn’t sure what to say, but then that sense of dread from the morning came rushing back and the sky god gave in, “I’m serious Martin. You’re MJN’s only captain, and loathe I am to admit it, she needs you.”

Though he was concentrating on the road, Douglas could feel Martin’s bright eyes digging into him.

“I- thank-you… Are you certain you’re okay?”

“Not so much anymore.”

This elicited a laugh, and Douglas smiled.

He had been awoken at 5:30 that morning by the ringing of his mobile. Groggy and hazed, Douglas had answered it without thinking only to have the world stop when it was Martin’s desperate voice on the other end.

That was when the day before came back to Douglas.

The accident, the ambulance, the grief, everything swept to the forefront of Douglas’ mind which left the man feeling dizzy. Yet despite what his memories were telling him, Martin Crieff, insufferable, loveable idiot that he was, was speaking to him rather haplessly over the phone, alive and apparently well.

A dream, Douglas had told himself. The whole nightmare had been just that, and nothing more. Martin hadn’t been fatally injured in a stupid bet, Martin wasn’t lying in a cold morgue, Martin was breathing and squeaking pleas through his mobile.

Douglas hadn’t cried in the night, but he almost did that morning.

The man recovered enough to agree to pick Martin up, and then after actually seeing Martin in the flesh, Douglas had grown quiet. The realness of the dream disturbed him. He didn’t want to dwell on it, but his mind kept flipping back to the images of a wheezing, crying, desperate Martin lying prone on the concrete.

Shaking his head, Douglas drove them the rest of the way in silence.

When they got to the airfield, Douglas got Martin riled up in a conversation and discreetly avoided witnessing Carl working out. As they crossed to the port-a-cabin, the fuel truck back-fired and Douglas teased Martin about jumping near out of his skin, while the first officer had barely flinched.

The smugness was replaced by a large sense of déjà vu, however, and as Martin settled into paperwork Douglas’ thoughts were once more brought to the dream.

There was something off about it, something that kept niggling at the back of the older man’s mind, like he should be seeing something he wasn’t. Besides its disturbingly real nature, there was also the fact that it was near on prophetic.

Douglas was so foregone in his musings that he barely registered when Arthur came in with their coffee, and Carolyn followed ranting about that evening’s client. Then he completely missed one of the engineers asking for a bit of help, and Martin volunteering what few electrician skills his father had passed down. It was only when Arthur was scrutinizing him mere inches away that Douglas startled out of his reveries.

“What’s on your mind, Douglas?”

“Nothing.”

“Really? Because it looked like something-“

“I was just wondering how often a duck would need to take a drink of water if it was cycling from Paris to Barcelona.”

“Wow, that’s an awful long way for a duck isn’t it?”

“Yes, yes it is.”

Whatever was to be further said on the cycling duck was forgotten when the lights suddenly dimmed, and they could practically hear the rest of the airfield power down before everything revved back to normal service.

Arthur stood straight and looked about, “That was weird, huh?”

Carolyn came out of her office and seemed about to say something when Douglas finally took note of the absent captain, “Where’s Martin?”

...


	3. Chapter 3

...

Douglas Richardson was never a fan of running, even in his younger days, but when Adam had burst into the port-a-cabin breathless and pointed desperately towards the control tower as he uttered “Crieff,” Douglas decided to take up the sport.

Douglas was quite honestly surprised at how quickly he overtook Arthur, despite the ball of dread that had settled in his stomach, threatening to make him sick. 

Douglas knew, he didn't know how, but he knew, and yet he kept running.

There were sirens in the distance as Douglas came round the corner of the last hangar, his heart stopping at the sight of the small group gathered round the tower's power box.

At the center of the group, there was an unmoving figure on the grass - a man - the sleeve of his right arm turned black. Another person knelt beside the man, looking completely forlorn, one hand hovering uselessly by the poor soul's shoulder.

The sense of dread in Douglas’ stomach hollowed out and nearly knocked the man off his feet.

God, no.

From the distance he stood, Douglas couldn’t make out who the fallen person was, or if they were alive, but somehow Douglas didn’t need to get close. It was all too obvious.

Martin Crieff was dead.

...

Golden brown, the color of whiskey and the color of relief. One sip and all his pain would be washed away to nothing more than a soft burn on the back of his throat, at least until tomorrow, when Douglas would have to mix grief with nausea. As it were, the man was having a hard time just handling one.

He was frozen on his bed, the bottle of liquor sat innocuously on his dresser. The ex-drunk only caught glimpses of the thing when the lightning lit up the room, the storm outside providing a befitting end to Douglas’ day.

Douglas had managed to grab Arthur as the younger man tried to run pass, stopping him from seeing Martin and asking him to take care of Carolyn. Arthur agreed, and believed his skipper would be alright – Douglas let him believe it until the hospital.

The paramedics were quick in assessing what happened (Martin had been trying to isolate some sort of power blockage when he cut into the main line), declaring the pilot’s death an accident and instantaneous. As they swiftly loaded Martin onto a stretcher, Douglas asked to ride along.

Douglas struggled in the silence of the ambulance, and eventually ended up with his hand on his friend’s cooling brow, an “Oh Martin,” passing through a breath. Douglas had run his fingers gently through Martin’s ginger curls, surprised at how messy they were. Martin liked pristine, he liked to look professional, even if he could never really pull it off.

Douglass had given a choked laugh before putting his hand to his mouth and taking in a deep breath to calm himself. Martin was covered then.

When Douglas had bought that bottle of whiskey, it was with every intention to damn sobriety and drink himself into a stupor. Not anymore, his captain deserved better - had always deserved so much better. If life had been unfair to anyone, it was Douglas, and even more so it was Martin.

Martin.

What had he last said to the man?

God, Douglas couldn’t remember, some joke as they were heading into the port-a-cabin, something about man-jet marriage legality – Martin had laughed at least.

He won’t anymore.

He’s gone.

Douglas suddenly found it very had to breathe, and closed his eyes as that damn niggling sensation at the back of his mind came tauntingly to the front - something familiar, something unbearably familiar.

Then there were desperate fingers on his thigh.

Oh yes, the dream. He had been through this all before; Martin had died before, though this time it was real. This time he wouldn’t wake up to Martin’s voice on a phone, this time Douglas had really lost a friend, a good friend, a good person, an annoying person who somehow worked his way into your heart if you just gave him half a chance.

A person Douglas had failed to take care of in a dream, and then apparently in real life.

The first sob was a strangled one, and the second was caught in his throat, he should have paid more attention that morning. He knew a thing or two about wires, he should have offered his help instead, or… done something, anything to save him.

But he had been too caught up in a stupid dream and those damn fingers on his thigh.

Fingers that shouldn’t feel so real - shouldn’t still be there.

Douglas rubbed at his thigh, trying to get rid of them, and behind him the clock flashed 21:20. 

...


	4. Chapter 4

...

The world snapped out of focus and then a loud ringing drove Douglas from the sudden darkness. His eyes popped open to see his clock blinking 5:30 at him and the red mobile vibrating between its shrill cries.

What the-?

Douglas sat up, disoriented, and looked about his room trying to remember when exactly he had fallen asleep. Only he hadn’t, just a moment ago he had been…

Douglas looked down to his sheet covered thigh, he couldn’t feel the fingers anymore.

Gone, finally gone.

Running a hand over his leg, Douglas closed his eyes with a sigh as the night before, and consequently the day before, came back to him. Martin had died in an accident, Douglas had bought a bottle, Douglas hadn’t opened the bottle, or at least he didn’t think he did. Maybe at some point during the storm he had given in, decided to end one misery and pick up another. That would certainly explain the gap in his memory.

Though he should feel like he’d been hanging upside down for too long, not just tired. Exhausted was more like it, actually – but his heart did carry a heavy burden.

Oh, the phone.

Not in the mood to talk to someone, but under the current circumstances it could have been important, so Douglas numbly grabbed the phone from his nightstand and blindly pressed accept and answered with a short, “Yes?”

“Douglas, it's Martin, look I know it's earl-“

A beep silenced the ghost as Douglas held the phone out in front of him, his face white and frozen in a look of disbelief.

No, no, no, no, no, no.

No, Martin had died, was dead, Douglas had seen it, felt it, twice. Twice? Yes, the dream and then yesterday. Yesterday had certainly happened; there was no mistaking that for some prophetic creation of his subconscious. He remembered it all so clearly.

The bottle- gone. Was it even ever there? Yes, yes it was, there was no doubt in his mind about that, but if he had bought the bottle then Martin was dead, so Martin couldn’t be on the phone…

Well, he certainly wasn’t on anymore, Douglas had hung up on whoever that was.

Scrolling through his contacts, and thinking maybe he’d gone mad, Douglas found his idiot captain’s name and hit enter. As he held the phone to his ear, he somewhat hoped it would ring and disconnect, but another part of him held his breath in anticipation.

Three rings, then a downcast voice answered, “Hello?”

Everything left Douglas at once in a wave, and he hit his head against the wall as he fell back. He cursed lightly, and rubbed the bruised spot then decided to try for normalcy, “My apologies, Martin, it seems we were unexpectedly disconnected, you see I can be rather impulsive when awoken ahead of schedule.”

“Douglas? Did I wake you?”

“That was what was implied, yes.”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to-“

“Then you shouldn’t have called,” and Douglas hit his head on his own accord.

“S-sorry, I’ll just-“

“Martin,” Douglas sighed and closed his eyes, “I’ll be there in an hour.”

“W-what, how did you?”

“If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather not say.”

“Right… so you'll give me a ride?"

"Sir is certainly slow this day."

"You just, caught me off guard, I'll see you then?”

"Yes."

"Douglas?"

“Hm?”

“Thank-you.”

Thank-you.

“I'd prefer if you didn't mention it.”

Douglas heard Martin laugh, and then hung up.

Just sitting there, Douglas stared at his phone, unsure of what had just happened, but his memory served him right – that was a near carbon-copy of yesterday’s conversation.

Maybe they’d give him a nice cell, one with clean padding and the good medicine.

...

By the time Douglas had gotten to the shared house he wasn’t sure if he had worked everything out or not despite being fully convinced that he was definitely not dreaming. He was willing, however, to accept that he had been given a second chance (by God or luck), so Douglas decided not to question things more than he had to. Though it wasn’t until Douglas saw Martin walking towards the Lexus that he realized how much he was grateful for that second chance.

“Ah, Douglas, again, thank-you for-“

“Ignore this,” Douglas warned before he pulled Martin into a quick embrace, squeezing once, before pulling away and directing Martin around the car.

“Okay,” Martin stumbled about the Lexus to the passenger door, his face the very definition of confused, “Do I want to know what that was all about?”

Douglas opened his door, encouraging Martin to do the same, “As I said, I can be rather impulsive this early in the morning, especially when called upon to rescue captains in crunches, pilots in peril, sirs in suspense-“

“Superiors in snafus?”

“Not quite sure on the superior part, but I’ll give you that one.”

Martin gave a face before slipping into the Lexus, Douglas right behind him.

... 

The drive to the airfield played out much like it had the other day, only with less brooding on Douglas’ part and more actual conversation, most of which the older man instigated. He just couldn’t get over the fact that Martin was alive, sitting next to him, breathing. He had truly been given another chance, and he wasn’t going to waste it.

In the end, however, the only new thing Douglas discovered about Martin was that the younger man was having a poor few weeks. He hadn’t had many jobs, and had even missed one because of an emergency flight. When Douglas inquired on the state of things, Martin rerouted the conversation and Douglas didn’t press.

When they got to the airfield, Douglas avoided Carl’s workout, still laughed when Martin jumped at the fuel truck, and then when engineer Adam stopped by seeking help Douglas offered his services first, insisting Martin finish his paperwork. Outside the port-a-cabin, Douglas kindly told Adam to sod off and call a professional.

The rest of the morning passed quietly, except for Arthur’s sudden desire to play tongue twisters, and come afternoon Douglas had managed to keep Martin alive long enough to actually greet their client, one Mrs. Carlos - recently widowed and celebrating.

As Carolyn chatted with the fat-wallet woman, making quick friends, Douglas headed to get Gerti ready as Martin oversaw her refueling. It was as Douglas was checking the channels with Carl that the jet shook, the distinct sound of an explosion reverberating from her tail end.

...

With the fourth phone call Douglas concluded that the world had something against him. 

...


	5. Chapter 5

...

The fourth day concluded with an accidental poisoning.

On the fifth day, Martin choked on the cork from Mrs. Carlos’ champagne bottle.

On the sixth, the esteem captain fell down Gerti’s steps.

On the seventh, Douglas had taken a different route and Martin was killed on impact as the Lexus squared off with a lorry.

On the eighth, Douglas couldn’t get rid of the image of Martin’s head twisted round and stayed in bed, crying beneath his pillow. Martin was mugged and stabbed on his walk to the airfield.

On the ninth, Arthur fed Martin the one obscure food he was allergic to.

On the tenth, Martin walked under a ladder where Dirk was working, just as the grounds man dropped his hammer.

Douglas couldn’t remember the eleventh.

The Twelfth was toxic fumes; they had lost a very brave Arthur too.

And on the thirteenth, Douglas thought he’d go insane, but then discovered why this was happening.

And maybe how to stop the maddening loop.

...


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Trigger Warning** : Suicidal thoughts/actions

...

Cycle 13, lucky 13.

Another day, another heartbreak.

And as Douglas ended the call with Martin, he wondered if he could even get out of bed. Yesterday had been one of the worst so far, having been forced to watch not just one friend, but two die. He understood Martin's death, it was going to happen until Douglas could stop it - all of it - but Arthur?

No, if anything, Douglas was for once glad of the little reset button at the end of the day.

How would today end? 

In the hospital? On the jet? At the airfield? Would Arthur cry, or shut down? Would Carolyn remain strong, or excuse herself to privacy? Would Douglas... Douglas didn't really know how he'd react this time. He didn't think he'd be able to take much more of this, having to watch Martin die again and again, having to see his friend suffer in terror before his eyes finally dulled.

Why would anyone put someone through this? It wasn't fair, it wasn't right.

What if Douglas refused to do anything? Martin would still die. What if Douglas died instead? Why hadn't he killed himself before - stepped in front of a bus, let himself get caught in the fuel truck's fire, inhale the fumes, why did he keep going through with this?

Because today could be the day, today he might see 21:21, that's why.

And that's also why Douglas needed to get out of bed, to make sure Martin saw tomorrow too.

...

Accomplished was hardly enough to fully describe how Douglas felt, but riding on ecstasy tended to muddle the brain’s thought patterns a bit, so the pilot settled for accomplished. And he had every right to be called so, because today on the thirteenth day in a long line of days, Douglas had managed to keep his dear Captain Crieff alive all the way up to the younger man’s front door that evening.

Fighting bench-presses, fuel trucks, engineers, and Arthurs, Douglas had ensured Martin’s safety to the very last minute of boarding Gerti. Then Douglas had caught the cork, a rather spectacular moment that awed Arthur and won applause from their client. On top of that, Douglas had found the cause of the fumes, fixed it, and ensured no heroes were lost with their damsels. Everything else was easily avoided, even the trials of climbing stairs (going up, Martin went first, going down, Douglas went first).

The day seemed to finally be ending on a high note as Douglas accepted praise from their client and flew them home.

Martin had been quiet during the flight back to Fitton, and claimed he was just tired when he was less than enthusiastic about the word game Douglas had wrangled up. Martin certainly looked lack-luster, and so Douglas had let him be and ended up doing most of the flying.

After they had landed (handled nicely by Martin), and Douglas had steered the young captain clear of falling hammers, Douglas offered Martin a ride home and once again failed to get a rise out of him.

Martin smiled a “Good night,” and a thank-you, and strolled into the student house unhindered. Douglas had then driven home in a jovial state and opened the front door to his empty home in song.

Oh yes, Douglas Richardson was feeling very accomplished, and was thinking that perhaps he’d see tomorrow after all as he began to prepare himself dinner.

It was as Douglas was seasoning his steak, however, that an uneasy feeling began to settle in his chest.

Something, something was wrong, something he was missing – something he had seen, but not really. It was reminiscent of the second day, when he had dwelled on the dream and then when he had heard Martin’s name uttered so desperately. A sense of dread that hardened and grew, making him sick.

No, Douglas couldn’t rest, something was definitely not right, he needed to go - to go where?

To Martin.

Setting down his pepper grinder with an angry sigh, Douglas turned off the oven and grabbed his keys, swinging his coat over his shoulders and moving swiftly through the door.

...

The drive to Martin’s was a short one made in haste, and after a small debate of whether or not he was overreacting, Douglas got out of the Lexus and nearly ran to the front door. A quick explanation of who he was to one of the students and Douglas was shown to the stairs. He took the first easily, the second quickly, and the third he caught his breath before reaching the attic door.

Lord, what was he doing?

He was being stupid, irrational. Martin was safe, Martin was alive, and hopefully - unless the world was a sadistic son of a bitch - Martin would still be alive tomorrow and Douglas would sleep in because they were on standby. Douglas had done what he had set out to do, he had saved his captain and ensured that one Martin Crieff existed for _one_ more day - which was apparently someone’s motive for all of this.

Possibly.

No, it had to be, what else would it be?

Douglas put his head against the door, not hard enough to knock, and took in a deep, calming breath.

Turn around, go home, Douglas looked down at his watch, 21:18.

Hey, if you make it to the front door that means everything’s okay and this is over.

Douglas laughed and raised his hand to knock, might as well make sure.

Just before his knuckles could come down there was a loud clatter from the other side. Without a moment’s hesitation, Douglas grabbed the knob and turned, pushing the door open quickly and calling, “Martin?”

Douglas froze at the sight of the young man hanging from the rafters.

Why? Oh.

Douglas closed his eyes and the captain’s watch ticked 21:20.

...

Douglas stared at his ceiling, his phone ringing on the table - day 14, Douglas felt his eyes prickle. Day 14 and he finally figured it out. What an idiot he had been not to see it before.

Oh Martin.

He wants to die, and so he does.

...


	7. Chapter 7

...

_You know that’s not true._

_I didn’t think you’d call back._

_There just hasn’t been any time for removals._

_I’m just tired, Douglas, I don’t feel like losing today._

_And Douglas Richardson saves the day, again._

_She called you captain, even after I told her_ I _was the captain._

_Good night, Douglas, um… Thank-you, for everything._

“Are you alright?”

Douglas snapped out of his musings and looked to the young man sat next to him in the Lexus. He saw them now, it had taken him nearly two weeks, but he saw them, the signs. There were always signs leading up to this sort of thing and now that he wasn’t an ignorant bastard he saw them.

The way Martin looked tired, the way he had sounded almost afraid every time Douglas had that phone call, the way Martin would laugh and play along, but nothing ever reached his eyes. Now that he thought about, Martin hadn’t even seemed to take pride in his landing on the 13th.

Martin had been dropping hints all this time that he was unwell, but Douglas could never… Douglas would have never thought the younger man capable of…

Well he'd been proven wrong yesterday, hadn’t he?

He had been too late too many times, he couldn’t be anymore. He’d find a way to make Martin live, to make him want to live. No matter what it cost, no matter how many more cycles it took, Douglas would save Martin.

If he only knew how.

Martin, despite appearances, had to own a core of steel to put up with the life he led. Douglas wasn't sure how long he would have survive with apparently having been put down most his life, and then only marginally succeeding at his dream as an adult. Not to mention the young man seemed to have no friends, or at least none that were ready to help him upon a moment's notice. Martin must've been terribly lonely in his attic, but at least he had always seemed... solid.

Not at all the man Douglas saw now.

Something must've happened, the final straw that broke the camel's back.

“Hello? Anyone still in there?”

Douglas blinked out of his thoughts, dodging the hand waving in front of his face, “Would you stop that, I’m trying to drive.”

“Um, no, actually you’ve been holding up traffic for a good while now,” and as if to emphasize this point an angry horn blared from behind.

Douglas growled something unintelligible and pushed the Lexus forward.

...

The fourteenth played out much like the thirteenth, only Douglas was more watchful of Martin. Out of the corner of his eye, Douglas could sometimes catch the other pilot staring off into space, his features not really sad but not really contemplative neutral either. Then Martin would give a small sigh, barely noticeable, and snap back into whatever he was supposed to be doing.

Douglas also made sure to correct Mrs. Carlos when she thanked them, and then compliment Martin on both landings (which he let the young man handle). This seemed to perk the captain up a bit, and by the time they were heading home, Douglas somewhat had an idea as to how to help Martin.

...

“Uh, Douglas, you missed the turn…”

“No I didn’t.”

“Yes you did-“

“No I didn’t, Martin.”

“I think I know the way to my own house-“

“Well you see, sir that was your mistake, because we’re not going to your house.”

“Then where are we going?”

“My house.”

“Y-Your house?”

“Yes, my large empty house, where I happen to live, and am driving towards.”

“… and why are we going to your house, Douglas?”

“For dinner.”

“…”

“Oh for- Not like that, Martin! I’m not kidnapping you in hopes you’ll develop Stockholm syndrome.”

“Then why are you kidnapping me?”

Lie, lie, lie, “Because, sir, there’s a fine cut of lamb in my freezer that’s about to expire, but since the occasion it was bought for was long-ago canceled, I need to eat it now and I don’t fancy gourmet leftovers.”

“So you decided to abduct me, and what, feed me your scraps?”

“Essentially, since it is doubtful you would have said yes if I had asked.”

“Well, now we’ll never know will we?”

“Besides, this way skips the awkward bits and saves time.”

“You’re quite enthused to get rid of that lamb.”

“It would seem so, yes.”

“What if I said I wasn’t hungry?”

“I’d mention a free bottle of white wine stashed under the sink.”

“… I suppose I am a bit peck-ish.”

“And I a great cook.”

“One dinner couldn’t hurt.”

That’s what they all say, “That’s the spirit!” 

...


	8. Chapter 8

...

“Do make yourself at home,” Douglas swung the front door open, depositing his jacket on a hook and stepping aside as Martin walked past the threshold, the young man’s eyes going wide as he got a glimpse inside, “I’ll just go get things ready in the kitchen.”

“How- where, this is _your_ house?”

“No it’s my neighbor’s, they’re really understanding about the break-ins.”

“You know what I meant, you work for Carolyn!”

“That I do, but until recently, my wife did not.”

“Oh,” Martin looked down, embarrassed, “right, s-sorry, I’d nearly… sorry.”

Douglas frowned as Martin played nervously with his sleeve, “Quite alright, we parted on relatively good terms, and she’s happier now.”

Martin flashed a weak smile and then seemingly realized the door was still open before gently closing it. Everything about the pilot that day seemed to be slow or awkward, like he couldn’t quite get anything right, and Douglas wondered about the depths of the young man’s troubles.

Soon, soon, Douglas reminded himself before directing Martin towards the living room and giving him full access to the media center.

...

Dinner was an awkward affair, spent mostly in silence as Martin ensured Douglas would not have to worry about one scrap of leftover. If he hadn’t known any better, Douglas would’ve thought Martin hadn’t eaten in days. Though, Douglas wouldn’t have been surprised if that was actually the case.

For the most part they ate in silence, Martin occasionally asking about some detail of the house or another and although Douglas hadn’t expected the man to just open up and weep woes upon his shoulder, he also hadn’t expected Martin to divert the conversation anytime it entered personal territory.

Martin seemed determined to keep his private life private, so the older man let it go, all the while feeding the captain glasses of wine.

...

Nearly three hours into the evening and Douglas had succeeded in getting Martin to open up… about aeroplanes. With three-quarters of a bottle of wine in him, all Martin could manage, however, was talking about aeroplanes. Martin had attempted walking at one point as they moved to the living room, but had failed quite fantastically and ended up sprawled across the couch. Douglas had sighed as he sat down in his armchair, and tried to pay attention as the younger man babbled on.

Some point after 20:30, Douglas began to fear he’d have to force the necessary issue with Martin, or try again tomorrow.

Fortunately, as Douglas struggled not to nod off on Martin’s recollection of building jet models, the young captain grew silent, holding the wine bottle up to the lights and watching the liquid swirl around the inside.

The display was pretty, if nothing else.

“What do you think it’s like to die?”

...

Douglas sat forward slowly, resting his elbows on his knees and studying his friend closely, “I wouldn’t know.”

“Well, you’ve had to have thought about it… Do you suppose it’s like flying?” Martin moved the bottle about in a whimsical fashion, imagining G-erti no doubt, “You’re just taken away from the world, all its problems, and you’re separated where only you and the plane matter… You’re free.”

“Martin,” Douglas said softly, cautiously, “Do you want to die?”

“Don’t be silly.”

“It’s not silly.”

“Why would I want, I mean it’s not like I have much to live for, but...”

“But you do have something.”

Martin frowned and brought the bottle down, resting it against his chest, “A very small, very big something, but it doesn’t matter, no one cares, _I’m_ not really anything to care about.”

“You’re a captain.”

“Not for real! I- I like to think I’m a captain, I play captain, but I’m not really. I mean I fly and god I love to fly, but I don’t get paid to be a captain, I’m just a wannabe. Don’t get me wrong, but I can’t continue like this, I mean I can barely feed myself, look at me I’m-I’m-”

The bottle dropped to the floor with a dull thud, and Martin's eyes followed it forlornly. Douglas watched, not sure where Martin’s thoughts were, but letting him get to where he needed to.

Martin suddenly took in a deep breath and covered his face with his hands, “I’m just- I’m just pathetic aren’t I? All I do is worry people - Can’t even support myself. Won’t face up to the fact that my dad was right, that I should just give up.”

“Martin," Douglas leaned closer, “What happened?”

“God, I’m sorry-“

“No, no it’s okay, not your fault-“

“But it is,” Martin took in a shuddering breath, but didn’t remove his hands, “My-my mum collapsed last week.”

“Dear lord, is she alright?”

"No, she's over stressed, worried, always worried about _me_. I tried to re-reassure her, but-but- I’m just,” Martin dug his heels into his eyes, trying to stop himself, “She’s hooked up to a hospital bed and she’s still fussing about Baby Marty! It’s not fair! She shouldn’t have to, if I’d only- if only I wasn’t such a loser!”

“You’re not-“

“What would you know?” Martin glared at Douglas, then his face fell and he closed his eyes, “You’re worried too? Mum, Caitlin, Arthur, I can see it, Carolyn even... Simon’s right, I’ll put ‘em all in the hospital. If I just disappeared – poof, gone, everyone’s lives would be so much easier.”

“Martin, no-“

“No? No – no one would care if Martin Crieff didn’t existence anymore, easily forgotten, good riddance-“

“I’d care.”

“No you wouldn’t-“

“ _Shut up_.”

Martin pressed himself into the couch with a surprised whimper when Douglas was suddenly very close, and very angry.

“You just shut up, and listen – I don’t care what nonsense your family has managed to drill into that head of yours, but whatever it is forget it! Because I would give a damn, Martin, okay, in fact I’d be devastated! I wouldn’t know what to do, and I don’t like not knowing what to do, and I most certainly don’t like the thought of having you gone. You know why? Because you’re my friend and I’m yours!”

Douglas pulled back, sitting down on the coffee table and putting his head in his hands, sighing. Martin sat up then, watching him carefully. Douglas laughed softly when he caught a glimpse of his watch before looking back up at Martin, he only had a few minutes left, might as well bet the entire tray.

“I know I may not act like it sometimes, Martin, but I really am. And despite appearances, I don’t have much anymore. I’ve lost three wives, a promising career, almost my daughter, and I’ll eventually have to sell the house, and though it may surprise you, there aren’t many people I consider to be real friends – but god help me you’re one of them.

“In fact, you’re probably the best of them, and don’t think for one moment that you don’t matter. MJN can’t survive without you. We’d be bankrupt or shut down by now if you hadn’t agreed to the terms you did, which doesn’t make you pathetic or desperate, it makes you generous. Perhaps exceedingly so, but you could’ve walked out on us – god knows you’d have the right – but you haven’t. Carolyn, Arthur, they need MJN as much as I do, it’s all we have, which means we need you too. Prissy, and pathetic, and breathing!

“Believe me, you'd be doing people more good than harm if you hung on for a little bit, things will get better, you’ll see."

Douglas ran a hand down his face, "And don't worry about your mother, she's always going to worry. That's what mothers do."

There, he said it, he was done.

He felt horribly touchy feely, but everything was out for Martin to see.

Martin knew he had a friend, a shoulder should he need one. Douglas was here.

Now if only the man in question would show some sign he heard.

Douglas stared at Martin, who looked like someone had slapped him, his eyes burrowing into the older man as if he was seeing Douglas for the first time. Was he confused? Perhaps he had gotten him too drunk? Douglas held his breath and prayed he hadn’t made things worse-

Suddenly Martin fell forward and twisted his hands into Douglas’ shirt on either side of his collar, pressing his head into his first officer’s chest and sobbing openly. Martin did his best to control himself, but between the emotion and the alcohol the man had almost no say in what his body did and so he shook with every shuddering cry.

Douglas didn’t know what else to do, so he comforted Martin as he would his daughter. He pulled Martin’s head close and rubbed circles on Martin’s trembling back. After a few eternal seconds, Martin’s breathing calmed and he did his best to sit away from Douglas, wiping his eyes and sniffling.

“Better?”

Martin nodded, and then promptly collapsed back onto the couch.

Douglas stood and put a worried hand to Martin’s forehead, but his captain had quickly fallen into a deep slumber. Douglas sighed for the umpteenth time that night before pulling Martin’s shoes off and sliding the afghan from the back of the couch over his friend.

With a small “oomph” Douglas sat back down in his arm chair, resting his chin one hand and watching Martin sleep. A small smile graced Douglas’ lips as he too felt sleep crawling up his person.

Douglas could only hope that he had done enough, that Martin Crieff would want the tomorrow he received.

Succumbing to a dreamless darkness, Douglas nodded off just as the clock ticked 21:20. 

...


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Glad you made it this far.

...

A sharp ring and Douglas snapped awake to a view of his ceiling.

No, dammit, no.

Douglas brought a hand to his face, rubbing his eyes as his heart sank. He had worked so hard, thought he had made some progress, but it was all for naught. Martin had still wanted to die by the end of it, and Douglas’ friendship apparently wasn’t enou-

Everything stopped, just or a second, as Douglas’ mind suddenly registered that he was in fact in a chair, not his bed, and that the ringing was from his home’s handset – not his mobile.

Almost afraid to look, Douglas held his breath and slowly lowered his hand from his eyes.

Douglas laughed, and collapsed back into his arm chair, grinning up at the ceiling before fighting his dizzy spell and sitting up again. He was in his living room, his dimly lit living room with the maroon carpet and everything, including a captain sleeping fitfully on the couch.

Breathing, twitching, curling, and breathing, just breathing!

Douglas suppressed another burst of laughter and sat forward on his elbows, one hand over his mouth, staring at his friend.

God, he never would’ve thought he’d be so jubilant to wake up and find a sleeping Martin so close. He could almost reach out and touch him – and he nearly did – but just watching Martin’s small frame rise and lower was enough.

When the young man had passed out last night, he had wanted to live, and now he would.

Douglas knew that everything was far from over, he’d be having one long and sober talk with his captain when Martin woke up. There were still many things to put on the mend, but at least the recycled day was done and Martin would see a tomrrow, and another, and another if his first officer had anything to say about it (and after everything that had happened, he’d better).

For now though, the old sky god was happy just to watch Martin sleep and know that the young man was still here, on earth.

Not flying.

Standing up from his chair, Douglas grabbed the afghan that had slipped to the floor and draped it back over Martin’s shivering form. The captain settled immediately and snuggled further against the cushions. Douglas couldn’t help the soft look that graced his features.

Such a child, Douglas thought before moving around the coffee table and finally attending to the ringing phone.

He looked down at the display and smiled at the time, 07:46, another day, another day, and then answered.

End.

...


End file.
